Moments
by Supernaturelle
Summary: Series of random drabbles, various POVs and subjects, based on random prompts. Some fun, some angst. Latest addition with Hurt!Dean. Pen name used to be happywritingjoy. Rated T for a teensy bit of language.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Ok, I had a lack of inspiration - for my multi-chapter fic as well as everything else (sorry for anyone who's reading it - there will be more eventually, I promise!). The idea of one-word prompts stuck in my head, and I picked words from the dictionary completely at random (just the first word my finger landed on - some of them scarily appropriate) - one for each letter of the alphabet.

I'm taking whatever pops into my head with each word and running with it. Not doing the prompts in alphabetical order either - just whichever happens to inspire me when I have time to write in between essays. Drabbles of varying lengths, from different perspectives, about... pretty much anything my strange, strange brain comes up with. Hope you enjoy reading at least some of them lol. And please leave a review if you particularly like/dislike, let me know what you think!

Here we go...

**Dreamer**

For years now, his life has been defined by his dreams.

Dreams of getting into one of the best colleges in the country, of making a success of his existence. And they were the ones he was supposed to have, right? All he'd got for them was rejection, a bellowed _If you walk out that door, you've left us behind, and don't think you can ever come back._

For a while after that, he'd been alone with his dreams. Then he'd met Jess, and the idea of his own future shifted around her, she became the centre, the one constant. He had peaceful nights, comfort, safety with her. But the illusions were shattered by the new dreams, the ones he had never chosen – still Jess, but a different future now. Fire, screaming, pain, loneliness. He tried to shut them out, ignore them, refused to acknowledge their warnings.

And then they came true, and he hadn't tried to stop it, and for one moment he was so completely alone as all the other dreams came shattering down around him.

Until Dean came back. Pulling Sam from the nightmare of that room, waking him from every nightmare since. Being there when the dreams stopped being confined to sleep, standing with him to fight back the darkness.

Because Sam desperately wants to fight back. Doesn't want who he is, who he's going to become, to be defined by the dreams anymore. They're all tainted by that darkness now, and he can't – won't – accept that that's what he was meant for.

He just wants the dreams to be good again. To stop being so damn painful. Because he realizes that somewhere along the way they stopped defining just his life. They started defining the people around him, the people he loves. The people he would have given anything not to hurt – the family torn apart, the woman he loved and his parents all destroyed, and now his brother being dragged into the darkness of the nightmare world with him.

He doesn't choose his own dreams anymore – whatever does, that's what defines them all now.


	2. N

This one really ran away with me... Spoilery for S2 (esp. Simon Says). Again, enjoy!

Oh, and because I forgot it before - no, they don't belong to me, and I don't earn any money for doing this.

**Nutritious**

They'd arrived in the new motel around midnight, having put as much distance between themselves and the memories of the last job as they could before Dean was finally forced to admit he was about to fall asleep at the wheel.

Unwilling, unable, to talk about it, both brothers were replaying moments over and over in their heads. Dean felt the cold muzzle of the rifle pressing into his chin, his own finger starting to push down on the trigger. Sam saw the look in Andy's eyes as he held the smoking gun, his own brother who he'd never had the chance to know lying dead at his feet.

They'd barely spoken all of that day, after a moment of mutual acknowledgement of how things were spinning out of control before driving away from the dam.

Sam might not have known the depths of what Dean was feeling, the knowledge he was carrying that made their conversation about Andy weigh so heavily on his mind, his heart. But he did know that his older brother was more worried than he would voluntarily let Sam know – he'd heard that confession, and no matter how immature Dean might want to be, he couldn't call a do-over on that one.

So Sam knew Dean was feeling terrible, would be for a long time to come – which was why he appreciated the gesture so much more when Dean dumped his bags on the bed nearest the door and gestured for Sam to use the shower first. It was a completely insignificant thing, but the type that somehow seemed to mean so much.

"You sure, man?" he asked softly.

"Yeah, go on. Just don't stink the bathroom up with your nancy-boy shampoo..." came the tired reply. A slight quirk of the lips from each brother at falling back into the familiar routine of meaningless insults, a sign of starting to move on.

Dean was already softly snoring into his pillow as Sam emerged from the shower. Sam knew he'd be dead to the world for about 12 hours – was envious of his brother's ability to switch off like that. He lay down on his own bed, silently deciding his plan for the next morning. He set his cellphone alarm and shoved the device under his pillow to avoid it waking Dean.

xxxxx

Dean lay for a few moments before forcing his heavy eyelids open, reluctant to leave the warmth of the bed and face the reality of a new day. As he finally accepted the inevitable and let himself fully wake up, there was a moment of panic as he saw the other bed empty. "Sammy...?" His voice came out quiet, rasped slightly in his throat, the last vestiges of sleep still lingering.

"Hey man. Afternoon!" The altogether too cheery voice came from the other side of the room. Dean slowly turned over, saw his brother sitting in a chair by the window, laptop open on his knees. "You're awake? Can I open the curtains up now?"

"Yeah, sure, why not." The thin curtain was swiftly pulled back from the window and Dean brought his arm up to his eyes for a second, groaning in protest against the piercing sunlight that suddenly flooded the room. "So – you weren't kidding when you said afternoon, huh? Dude, why didn't you wake me?"

"Because I'm an awesome brother," shot back Sam with a smirk.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Man, I'm starving. You been out yet? Anywhere to get some food?"

"Well, erm, yeah," came the slightly tentative reply from the chair. "But you don't have to bother going out if you don't want to. I kind of bought you something – you know, if you want it. Don't have to eat it." He ended up mumbling, pointing to a bag on the small desk in the corner of the room. Dean shot him a questioning look, but when it was clear Sam was done talking for now, he reached out and grabbed the bag.

"Hey, this smells pretty good..." Dean ripped quickly into the bag, finding a couple of covered plates that did, in fact, smell pretty damn good.

Sam raised his eyes and watched as Dean uncovered the plates. "Yeah, I found this little place that just does all this home-cooked food and just thought, you know..."

Dean stared at the steaming roast chicken dinner and the mouth-watering apple pie for a second, wondering what the hell he'd done to deserve it. He looked up at Sam, who was clearly relishing the effect of his surprise. There was a moment of silence as one glance conveyed all the mutual gratitude it needed to, a flash of memory, of casually spoken words that had somehow been remembered even after all the madness – _Just once, I'd like to eat something I didn't have to microwave in a mini-mart_. A moment to appreciate just being brothers.

Then Dean cleared his throat and turned eagerly back to the piles of food in front of him. "You're just glad I'm so hungry, dude, or I'd seriously have something to say about all this healthy crap on these plates..."


	3. F

**A/N: **Ok, so here's number three... Once again, hope you enjoy my random ramblings :) And, as per usual, feedback appreciated! Eternal thanks to ohmygodnotthecar for great beta-ing and making me feel slightly less insane...

Please... DON'T be put off by the title of this one - NO WINCEST EVER.

Disclaimer: Believe me, I wish I owned them.

**Fetish**

"Hey Sammy. That's it – open your eyes. There you go. Had me worried for a bit there, dude."

Sam blinks furiously, trying to register exactly what Dean has just said. "D.. Dean?" His voice sounds shaky, unsure, and _God_, why does his head hurt so much? He puts a tentative hand to his forehead as he pushes himself up slowly from the floor, Dean's hands grabbing his arm, the same steadying force he's always been.

"Come on, man – sit down for a bit. That was some impact. The bookcase is not your friend, Sammy."

"Wha... bookcase? Gotta be... kidding." He groans as he lets his head fall forward into his hands, somehow hoping that if he presses hard enough he could maybe push the pain away. And not looking around the room helps with the weird spinning sensation.

"'Fraid not, Sam. That siren packed one hell of a punch." Dean feels Sam tense under his concerned touch – quickly reassures. "Don't worry, it's dealt with. One more evil son-of-a-bitch down." The relief and cocky arrogance both clear in his voice now, but he doesn't care. Sam's safe and that siren won't be killing anyone else now, that's for damn sure. _Our work here is done_.

But he allows the concerned expression to settle in once more as he gently lifts Sam's head, checks his eyes. "Ouch, yeah, that's a bitch of a concussion. We'll get you back to the motel, clean you up. As usual, Sammy – you look like shit."

"Yeah – thanks," comes the sardonic reply. Sam wishes he could think of something else to say, just one witty comeback, but his head's still spinning way too much.

Dean helps him out of the chair, walks right next to him all the way back out to the car, _just in case_. Sam settles in the passenger seat, knows enough not to close his eyes and try to sleep just yet. "Sammy,"starts Dean as he revs the engine and pulls out onto the road.

"Yeah, Dean, 'sokay – 'm not gonna go to sleep," Sam mumbles back.

"I know that, dude. I was just gonna say – I think maybe you should talk to someone. Like, a specialist, or something." He sees the look of confusion creasing Sam's brow, chuckles to himself as he finishes his thought. "'Cos this fetish of yours for evil chicks and destructive relationships, it's starting to get out of hand. I mean, Meg was kinda hot, but a siren?" A satisfied smirk spreads across his face, only made wider by the muttered, monosyllabic response from the passenger seat. "Jerk."


	4. M

A/N: Yet again, my mind running away with me. I was ill, so this is pretty angsty lol. Some bad language, because it's Dean... Again, hope you enjoy. And please review!

Still no ownership of anything Winchester-related (aside from DVDs).

**Middle**

I don't know how much longer I can take it.

Up until a couple of years ago, things weren't too bad. There were no arguments, no meaningless shouting matches. Sure, we weren't what you'd call "normal", but how could anyone really expect us to be? A piece of the heart of your family gets ripped away, your perception of reality gets flipped on its head by the discovery that there really are things to be afraid of in the dark - Dad's always tried his hardest to deal with it all. He's trained us the best he can.

Growing up, I just accepted it. Practically relished it, even – knowing that we were doing what we were doing to avenge mom, to save other people. Went on my first real hunt at 16, knowing that I'd met no-one else in my life who could even imagine the kinds of things I was doing. It scares the crap out of me sometimes, knowing just exactly what's out there, but it still gives me a strange thrill, that confidence that I'm different, that I'm not just one of the oblivious masses. What I'm doing makes a real difference, and there's very few, if any, others who could do it in my place.

Sammy's problem is that he's just too good with people. I've got used to being an outcast – I feel marked out, unique. Most people are too damn stupid to deal with most of the time anyway. Sammy's just too tolerant for his own good, too sociable, too likeable. Always makes friends wherever we go. I reckon that's why it all started. He started to resent being different, having to move every few months, to leave people behind every time. It was never a problem for me and dad – we understood the problems, didn't get to know people well enough to call it _leaving_ them.

But it just got tougher and tougher on Sammy. He started questioning the lifestyle, dad's whole mission – and that was always gonna be a huge mistake. It all blew up when the kid decided to disappear. Damned idiotic thing to do, but he did it anyway – didn't want to have to move away again. We didn't see him for almost a week. He eventually turned up on the doorstep, looked like he'd barely eaten since he left. Said he was sorry, but dad went crazy.

They ended up yelling at each other for three hours straight. Turned out Sammy had a girlfriend for the first time. How fucked up is it that neither of us knew that? They went off together, stupid impulsive decision made by two kids who didn't know better – hell, why wouldn't Sammy think it could work? I'd looked after him for years while dad disappeared, sometimes weeks going by before he'd stumble back through the door – usually injured or wasted. But it blew up in their faces. Sammy's got too much of a conscience to think of stealing as a way to get by.

And that was where it started. Sammy entered the "rebellious phase" - only it's pretty much become the default setting now.

That first time, I sat upstairs, listening to the yelling, let them get it all out, figured we'd move on and it would be fine. But the moving on just didn't happen. They'll argue every couple days – something completely pointless usually sets it off, but the big things are always just under the surface, making everything that much worse. I tried to ride it out, ignore it. And it was a few weeks until I got involved. The first time things started getting thrown around.

Dad told us we were moving out the next day, off to God knows where. As usual, no _that ok with you guys? wanna say goodbye before we leave?_ Sammy called him on it, they yelled for a while, but then the kid threatened to leave again if we couldn't stay a few days longer.

And just like that, bad became worse. A hell of a lot worse. Before I knew it, I reckon before _he_ even knew it, a glass had been picked up from the table and launched from dad's hand across the room, smashed on the wall right by Sammy's head. I'd had enough. I waded right in, trying to keep calm, refusing to let myself be dragged into the shouting match. Quietly, deadly serious, told Sam to get upstairs and pack his stuff and dad to sit down and breathe, relax, before anything happened that we were all really gonna regret. They both listened – obeying orders ingrained into all of us. All of us shocked into a false truce, a stunned silence – not quite believing how far things had gone.

Since then, I try to stop it getting back to that place. By being the calm, reasonable voice in the centre of the storm. I desperately try not to take sides, even when one of them's clearly being an unreasonable ass. Won't let them fight if dad's drunk.

I don't know how much longer I can listen to them rip each other apart, watch what's left of our family pull itself to pieces.

And, for the last couple of days, I've known that I won't have to deal with it much longer. Because Sammy showed me the acceptance letter. Stanford, who'd have guessed the kid could manage it? My little brother.

But the dread that settled in when I saw that letter is outweighing the pride. Because I know now that things here are gonna get a hell of a lot worse before they have a chance of getting better.

Sammy's got the chance to get out of this, to be normal like he's always wanted, to have a real life, settle somewhere for once. And it's a huge thing, and I'm happy for him. But dad will see that letter and he'll feel the other thing that I feel too – the same he did that first time Sam ran off – because how the hell can we look out for the kid unless he's here? How are we gonna protect him if he's off at college?

Neither of them will really understand the other side – they'll refuse to hear it, too practiced at everything becoming an excuse for irrationality and block-headed, ignorant stubbornness. There'll be yelling, they'll say things they'll end up really regretting. But Sammy's too old to be stopped anymore, so there's nothing dad will be able to do about it, and it'll all be pointless.

And I'll be stuck in the middle, like always, seeing both sides, praying to whatever I can think of that this won't be the final thing that brings this fucked-up existence crashing down around us. That there'll be something left to salvage after the dust clears.

Then I'll have to watch Sammy leave, because it tears me up letting him go, but I can't stop him either, and I have to stay. No other choice for me. And I'll have to believe that one day he'll come back, we can be a family again. And just maybe, being in the middle won't be so difficult anymore.


	5. I

A/N: Here we go again! Enjoy and review!

Definitely still not mine.

**Imposition**

Sam hated this part of their job. They stood on the front doorstep of a normal, decent-looking townhouse.

Before ringing the doorbell, Sam glanced at Dean. The older brother had his eyes fixed on the door, looking relaxed and at ease as always. Ready and raring to go.

"Dean, do you not _ever_ feel bad about this kind of thing?" A signature quizzical quirk of the eyebrows as the shorter brother looked up briefly. Sam sighed quietly, amazed at how clueless his brother could seem when it came to decent human behaviour. "You know, lying to the recently bereaved?"

"Uhmmmm... no," came the flippant reply.

"Dean, I'm serious. How do you just take it in your stride like this?"

"Huh... don't really know. I guess – well, this woman wouldn't want anyone else to be killed by the same thing, right? And neither would her dead son?"

"Well, no..."

"There it is, then. We're gonna stop that happening, so we're doing a good thing. Lesser of two evils. A couple of white lies versus, you know - gruesome, horrible deaths." A flicker of a grin as Dean reached for the doorbell.

"But, man, how do the lies just come so easily? You're not even nervous." Dean hesitated and pulled his hand back briefly.

"Well, I _do_ have more experience than you do lying to women..." Dean saw a disapproving frown begin to settle on Sam's face. "And yes, I know, Samantha, I'm not supposed to be proud of that – clearly all your suspicions are true and I'm a freakish social outcast."

"Fine, whatever, if you're gonna be an ass, let's just get this over with." This time, Sam reached out and pushed down on the doorbell.

As they waited for the woman to make her way to the door, Dean glanced briefly back at Sam. "I just – it's sorta not really me, you know? She'll believe I was her son's college friend, so that's who she's talking to. If that makes any sense. It's kinda just acting I guess." The mischievous grin spread briefly across his face again. "And of course, you would know about that – our own little wannabe Olivier..."

Sam resisted the urge to punch Dean's arm as the door swung slowly open in front of them, revealing a still visibly distraught woman. Both brothers' faces slipped instinctively into the sympathetic-shoulder-to-cry-on masks they'd honed over years of practice, any doubts or qualms forced into the background to deal with the moment at hand.

Dean cleared his throat and took half a step forward, sincere mode kicking into high gear. "Mrs. Thompson, hi. I'm Dean, this is my brother Sam. We were at NYU with Pete. I'm sorry for troubling you – we don't mean to impose, but we were hoping to come in and have a chat, see if there's anything you needed any help with?"

The woman hesitantly opened the door, the small gesture welcoming them into her home, her life, her grief, and unknowingly bringing vengeance for her son's death one step nearer.


	6. Q

**A/N:** So, yeah, I'm in a weird place in my head at the moment. Huge lack of sleep, far too much work to do etc. And this is what came of my mind being more screwed up than usual. Hope it's a good read. This is a very new perspective for my writing, and I crave feedback/validation - so please review if you have the time!

**Disclaimer:** Would not be feeling so crappy at the moment if I owned anything associated with this show...

**Quincentenary**

It's so close now, he can practically taste the destruction, the glory of it.

Five hundred years. To most, an eternity. Five lifetimes or more. From where he stands, so much less significant. But it's still been too long. Waiting for his moment, for it all to finally come together. Centuries of planning, of watching and waiting. And finally it's almost time.

The human world has made its way along in blissful ignorance, the population ever growing, apparent advances in technology and thought so highly valued. But soon enough, none of it will count for anything.

Of course, the world changes. The first time he wore a meat suit, America hadn't even been thought of yet. And what he's planning is so far beyond all of it, that by the time he's done, it'll be nothing but a distant memory.

Soon, people will realize their mistakes. The very real need for fear of things beyond their understanding, things that most no longer believe in.

The preparations are almost done. The pieces all in place, the wheels set in motion. He stands back and watches; watches the key parts of the process; makes sure everything's still progressing as it should; that the children go about their lives, so convinced they can have an impact on something that's so far beyond their comprehension it's laughable. He's ready now. Five hundred years after the process was begun, it will all finally come together. Only one piece of the puzzle still worries him in the slightest. The strength of the mutual protective instinct of the brothers surprises him. But he remains confident, concerns himself as little as possible. He's been waiting too long, and they'd have to pull off something spectacular to upset things now.

So he watches, waits, and looks forward to the end. Chooses to ignore the nagging feeling that _it's not done just yet._ He revels in the anticipation of what's to come as the last days begin to play out.


	7. O

A/N: Ok, I've been trying to make this one work for a while. It didn't start out meaning to be anyone's POV, but Dean muscled on in there for most of it... Hopefully, it's a fun read – I certainly enjoyed writing it!

And be reassured – I'm about as fond of Mary Sues as I am of having to keep reminding myself that I don't in fact own anything Supernatural-related other than DVDs (and a funky clock!). So don't be put off by the beginning. I promise that OFC is not the point of this piece!

Please review and let me know what you think – I'm intrigued to see whether people agree with how I think Dean would react to this situation. _Italics_ represent Dean's thoughts, although I'm sure you all know that lol!

**Officer**

They stood and waited, having rung the doorbell of the imposingly expensive-looking house in front of them. Each brother wore a deep blue jacket bearing the badge of the local police department. As disguises go, it was always one of their favourites – conveniently explaining away any weapons they may happen to be carrying. And, of course, the uniforms always helped when it came to interviewing impressionable young women. Something Dean was much happier about using to their advantage than his younger brother was, but hey, as long as it worked.

The door swung slowly open in front of them. Sam clicked straight into professional mode, training in how to carry this particular charade off convincingly making it as close to instinct as it could be. On the surface, Dean did the same. In reality, huge amounts of concentration were devoted to not letting his jaw hit the floor as he stared at the vision that stood in the doorway. The stunning, mini-skirt-clad, blonde vision.

"Excuse me, ma'am. I'm Officer Burnett, this is Officer Lowrey. Are you Eve Henderson?" Sam's voice was deeper than normal, affecting an authoritative tone – letting just a hint of a drawl creep in there. Dean, as usual, fought to hold back a smirk. Because Sam was far better at this game than he would ever admit to either Dean or himself. Better than that protesting, cuddly, caring morality of his – _wouldn't be such a problem if he actually had, like, testosterone somewhere in there_ - would let him admit.

Dean sometimes worried he was being outdone in the charming stakes. Would never say it, because the bitchy backtalk, the snide insults, would be endless. But those damn puppy eyes that Sam had learned far too early would get pretty much anything he wanted out of Dean – they worked on other people too, and, damn, they _always_ worked. The fact that he had more ammo to back them up, even more ways to turn on that charm when he needed it? That was just plain unnecessary.

"No, I'm not, but she is here. I'm sure she'd be more than happy to talk to you, officers." The last word of the reply was just that bit emphasized, a slight smile accompanying the end of the sentence. Later, Dean would think that his first clue should have been right there. But at that moment, he was oblivious. Blissfully ignorant.

It was like a switch had been flicked inside Dean. The upstairs and downstairs brains had conferenced and decided that they were working for a common purpose. There was no way – _no way_ – he was letting Sammy unleash the full-force puppy-dog offensive on this one. Not before he'd been allowed to assert his own clearly more masculine irresistibility.

He cleared his throat as he took half a step forward, finding and maintaining eye contact – _the _eyes_, look at the _eyes_ – _as he began. "Well, that's just great. We need to speak with Eve. It's.." A conspiratorial lowering of the voice, drawing her in – mentally and physically too – damn, this stuff was fun. "It's important. If you could take us right on through – um...?"

"Amy." Dean could hear it in her voice – she'd fallen for it, so quickly it was almost unbelievable. If Eve was anything like her friend, this was going to be one of the easiest fake police investigations they'd ever carried out. Which, for figuring out just what was going on with this hunt and getting the hell out of possibly the most hideous motel room he'd ever seen – which was saying a _lot_ – was a very good thing. "I can absolutely take you through. Just follow me."

Dean followed Amy straight into the hallway, focus unwaveringly on her. He didn't need to look back – he could practically hear Sammy rolling his eyes. _No good, can't just turn this sort of chemistry on and off, dude._

Amy led them down the hall into a huge kitchen-dining-area-in-one, the interior of the house just confirming the impression from outside that these were some pretty well-off people they were helping. Not for the first time, Dean wished they could operate in a less under-the-radar way. That they could just come out and tell people what they were doing. Set up an agency or something. Be legitimately official, because it was pretty likely that all they'd have to do was sit back and watch people fall over themselves to compensate them for the crap they went through every damn day. Get something real back. And the hero worship and admiration from those adoring hordes of rescued damsels? Well, that wouldn't hurt either.

Dean snapped back into focus as Sam tapped him on the shoulder. "Dean, I forgot something in the car."

"'K Sammy, you run back and get that. I'll just stick around here, wait for Eve." He flashed a confident grin in Amy's direction, noted with satisfaction the coy half-smile that she sent his way in response.

Usually, Dean knew his brother inside-out. Never missed a beat when it came to Sammy's moods, the different tones in his voice. But just then, his attention was elsewhere, caught up in turning the self-assured charm up to 11, and he missed it. Missed the well-concealed undercurrent in Sam's voice as he told Amy he'd be back in "just a minute" and headed back down the hallway. That was one he'd kick himself for later. Second clue, right there, and still nothing had registered.

There was a moment of silence after Sam left, which Amy broke as she (reluctantly, Dean noticed) said she'd just go and let Eve know that he wanted to see her. Dean glanced around the kitchen after she left, saw the large amounts of alcohol sitting on the side. _Wow, someone's getting ready to party. _That was the first moment that something started nagging at the back of his mind. Something... not quite right? But as he was about to start really taking notice of that feeling, Amy's voice drifted through from the next room.

The ultra-cool, cocky swagger returned easily to his mindset and his movements as he made his way to the room the voice was coming from. He pushed open the door... and stopped dead in his tracks.

It wasn't often that Dean was phased by things. He could pretty much take anything in his stride. Improvisation, adjusting attitudes and reactions on demand, was more than just an art, it was an essential life skill. One that he excelled at. But this? This was... new. Unexpected was an understatement. It completely blind-sided him, froze him in the doorway.

This wasn't Amy and Eve, like he'd been expecting to see. Instead, he was standing in front of a whole room full of women. Slightly inebriated, giggling, twenty-something women. Some of them with bright red "L" plates hanging around their necks. His eyes darted around, took in the scene, and things started to fall slowly into place. Into a very bad place. A place he didn't want to think things could possibly fall into. Because, if they did... holy crap.

The couple of seconds seemed to stretch out into hours of awkward silence, the air in the room practically humming with anticipation. It was Amy's hand resting lightly on his arm, the question - "Isn't your partner back yet, _officer_?" - that actually made it hit Dean. This was actually happening. He couldn't believe it. Any semblance of dignity, of cool, calm and collected, completely deserted him as the words tripped over themselves in the rush to get the hell out.

"Woah, woah... no, you think...? No, no, I'm... we're... look, erm, ladies, we're not... I mean, my partner and I – not, like, my _partner_, we work together... woah, but no, _no_, not like that... that came out wrong... Look, we're _actually_ police officers, ok?" In hindsight, that probably wasn't the best time to bring out the badge and handcuffs that had come with the jacket to prove his point. _Idiot._

"Oh, come on, you're not fooling anyone," Amy giggled. "No actual police officer would flirt_ that _openly. Look, if the other guy's not coming back soon, we'll find some music for you. It's Eve's last day of freedom! Let's see your moves – it feels like you're just all muscle under this jacket..." As her hand started travelling slowly up his arm, Dean finally re-discovered how to move. He stepped quickly away, yanking his arm from Amy's grasp as if she'd hit him with an electrical charge.

"Woah, ok – that's enough. Look, I'm not a stripper, ok? I'm an officer of the law. Eve, we'll come back to speak with you at a less... inappropriate... time, and let's all just try to forget about this incident, shall we? Ok... erm... I'm just gonna – leave - now." He practically ran from the room, was out the front door in five seconds flat, his cheeks flushed bright red with embarrassment, still trying to process what had happened, or just forget it – _forever_ – and move on.

But the first thing he heard as he stepped out the front door made it horribly obvious that the second of those wasn't going to be an option. It took a second to register where the mocking wolf-whistle was coming from before, _of course_, he saw his smug, self-satisfied, holier-than-thou, stupid pain-in-the-_ass_ of a little brother leaning on the hood of the Impala, a huge grin spread across his face as Dean started moving towards the car.

"So, how'd it go in there? With, you know, the questioning?" Sam's frankly pitiful attempt at deadpanning ended up in a snort of laughter followed by something suspiciously like a fit of the giggles.

"Dude, don't make that noise. You sound like a 10-year-old girl." _Change the subject, change the subject, shame him into shutting the hell up..._ But Dean knew that it was never going to work.

"Oh, man, I don't care. Nothing you say is gonna embarrass me right now! You just... you..." Sam paused to take in gulps of air in between bouts of derisive laughter. ".. you walked right on in there, you just had no clue. Damn, I wish I could have seen your face when you realized..." Sam saw the image in his head and dissolved back into giggles, tears starting to roll down his face. He hadn't laughed this hard since... well, for a while.

Dean watched in silence, completely unimpressed. Just for a few seconds. Then he turned sharply, heading for the driver's side door. As Sam headed for the passenger side, Dean reproached bitterly: "I can't believe you knew. And left. And didn't tell me. That's just... it's just low."

"Oh, come on, Dean! Appreciate the irony! You were practically drooling all over that girl, not doing the job properly, and you got caught out!"

Dean tried to protest, but his traitorous little brother was hearing none of it. "You know it's true. You would have noticed the balloons, the party in the next room, all of it, if you hadn't been trying to, like, prove your superior manliness, or chauvinistic superpowers, or whatever it is that you do." Sometimes, Dean really hated that Sammy knew him so well.

As Dean turned the key in the ignition, there was a resignation in his voice. "You're not gonna let this one go, are you?"

"Hey, I know it's difficult for you, but just look at it this way – it's _incredibly _entertaining for me!" Dean glared at his brother. If daggers could literally shoot out of peoples' eyes, Sam would have been pinned to the passenger door. By many, _many_ daggers. "Come on, Dean, think about it, would _you _ let something like this go?" The kid had a point. Damn it.

Which was no reason not to lie. "Yes!"

There were a few moments of blissful silence before Sam spoke up again. "Dean..."

"What, Sammy? More "look-at-me-being-all-superior" bitching? Go for it. But I _will_ throw you out of this car if you really start to piss me off. While it's moving."

"Hey, come on, I can rise above it if you need me to – for a while at least. I was actually thinking, you know, I could go back and do that interview tomorrow. If you'd prefer."

"Yeah, thanks, whatever."

"I want you to know that I'm here to support you, help you out. Cause, you know, I understand that you won't have so much time for all this stuff any more. Not with your new day job..."

Once again, Sam dissolved into uncontrolled laughter, not even dissuaded by the swift punch that almost deadened his left arm. Dean drove on in stoic silence, back to the motel, trying his best to ignore the periodic insults about his IQ and his questionable sexuality. Silence. Contemplation. Thought. Plotting. Planning his revenge. Cause it was gonna have to be damn good.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxox

A/N: Wow! Longer than I thought... But yeah, there it is. Again, let me know what you thought.

Anyone who can figure out where the fake names – and Sam's TV quote (which, if Dean would have recognized it, would have led to more accusations of Sam being a girl lol) – come from... erm... gets the extra cookie :)


	8. K

A/N: So, this was an interesting prompt to get. Took a while to figure out exactly where it was gonna go, but hopefully this has worked out ok – should be an entertaining, if very very weird, read! Let me know if you enjoy :)

Created with the collaboration of my ever-wonderful beta ohmygodnotthecar – thanks for the inspiration, dude! And yes, yes we are channelling the sibling dynamic far too much at this stage... Which is strange, because we're both older siblings. But anyway, moving on.

Disclaimer: If we owned them, there would be shirtlessness. Lots of shirtlessness. Mmmm...

**Kangaroo**

"Woah, that is just... creepy."

"Really? Pretty much just looks crappy to me."

"Ha. Yeah, you're hilarious. It creeps me out, ok?"

"Seriously? Come on, it's so unrealistic. A 10-foot-tall, orange kangaroo? Nothing scary about something that looks _that_ fake. Or that welcomes people into the freakin' kiddies' zoo. But then, most normal people don't think clowns are scary either... Hey, maybe you're regressing 'cause you used up too many brain cells being a nerd. Your subconscious is five years old. That would explain it."

"Dean, will you knock it off? Fear of clowns is actually pretty common, ok? Which you know anyway, so could you maybe consider stopping irritating the hell out of me for no reason? Actually, come to think of it, _that's_ something a 5-year-old would do..."

"Great. So, it's agreed, we're even. Come on, Sammy, stop staring at it like it's gonna bite you. I promise, I'll protect you from the great big chunk of – fibreglass, or whatever the hell that thing's made out of."

"Seriously, can you just shove it? Just for an hour maybe? I swear, that would be like a record for you. I mean it. It's just freaking me out. The thing's eyes are yellow! And they keep following me around."

"... What the hell?"

"You know, like those paintings that always weirded you out? That's the vibe I'm getting from this thing."

"Vibe? You're getting a _vibe_ from a random inanimate object?"

"Wow, inanimate, big words. You been watering your IQ or something?"

"Stow it, college boy. Do _not _start playing the geek card on me. I'll rip it right out your hand and beat you into the ground with it."

"That sentence just... doesn't work on so many levels..."

"Ha! See, told you. I win."

"Screw you."

"Petty insults? Sammy, I'm so disappointed."

"Dean, I think it might be possessed."

"... The fuck? Ok, now you're just doing it to annoy me, right? Can we not just move on, where it won't be able to, whatever, see you any more?"

"But... it's weird."

"Oh, dude, come on. You sound like a snotty little sheltered brat. I can't believe I let you hunt with me. Maybe we should wrap you up in cotton wool, keep you locked up safe in the motel every time there's a nasty? Then I can kill it, then I'll come back and we can care and share and I can tell you that everything's gonna be ok..."

"Look, I get it, ok? You've made your damn point. God, if you ran your mouth off any more... actually, I don't think that would be possible. I swear, the day you catch a freakin' cold and lose your voice, even just for a few hours, it'll be the happiest day of my life."

"Oh, Sammy, I'm touched. Your concern for me, really, it's just... it's too much."

"You know what? I give up. Let's just – get this over with."

"Oh, is Sammy ready to move on past the big scary kangaroo now? Ok, then, as long as you're sure..."

"Fine, whatever. Christo."

"Dude, did you just say something?"

"Erm... fine, whatever?"

"No, after that."

"No. Nothing."

"Dude, you totally did! You just Christo'ed the giant kiddies' kangaroo! Dad would be... so proud."

"Yeah, whatever. Better safe than sorry."

"You know what? On second thoughts, let's... let's grab some stuff out the car. I think I see what you mean about the eyes. I think they just moved."

"Really?"

"No, dude. I'm. _Messing._ With you. Weird, gullible little freak."

xxxxx

Hee! Well, we enjoyed writing it... Looks like Dean got his revenge for the stripper thing after all :) Review please! Validate our sense of humour (or just tell us we're insane)!


	9. P

This one's just a snapshot - John's POV - and I was feeling angsty so there's some Hurt!Dean going on. If you enjoy this, look out for my next story - I'm planning a multichap extension of this oneshot :)

Reviews would be lovely!

John Winchester's hands were clenched tightly around the steering wheel, knuckles white from the pressure. He was stamping down on the accelerator. Usually, he tried to be careful when he was driving. Avoiding unnecessary police attention for stupid things like speeding was just common sense. But somehow, with one of his teenage sons laid out bleeding across the back seat, common sense seemed to fly out the window.

The screaming, at least, had stopped. John wasn't sure whether to be relieved or even more terrified now that the constant string of expletives and agonized cries had died down, just the occasional muffled whimper now interrupting the harsh sounds of his son's efforts to breathe.

John's eyes flicked constantly back and forth between watching the road and checking in the rearview mirror. Dean was lying flat on the seat, just out of John's line of sight. The look on Sammy's face gave him all the information he needed. The panic in the 15-year-old's eyes as he tried to staunch the bleeding, the trembling bottom lip as he whispered a constant string of meaningless reassurances to his suffering brother, told John that he needed to make a decision, and soon.

Bobby's was still a good 45 minutes away, and John didn't even know if he could make it that far, let alone ask either of his sons to hold up that long.

A final moan from Dean was followed by Sam's voice rising to a more audible level, no attempt made to hide the terror in the heartfelt words: "Dean, no, come on man, don't you do this."

"Sammy? What's going on back there?" John was surprised to hear the strength of his own voice.

"Dad, he's – oh, God, come on Dean, please... Dad, he's out. He's not waking up."

A wave of nausea rolled through John at Sam's stricken words, finally forcing him to make the decision he'd been trying to avoid since they'd found Dean. John's own shaking hands were making him barely fit to drive as it was, and now it became horribly obvious that his son may well not survive long enough to get him to Bobby. Time for Plan B.

John Winchester was not good at trusting people. A couple decades of knowing things that could get him thrown in a rubber room if mentioned in conversation, of doing things that ended up with police teams on the lookout for their next Death Row inmate, had taught him to close himself off. He did not let his guard down, even with friends, and very rarely would he trust a stranger or even a casual acquaintance with any actually true information about his past, his work or his family.

The decision to go with Bobby's backup, then, was not taken lightly. All John had to go on were Bobby's assurances that this was "a good man". John would trust Bobby with his life, and the lives of his sons, in a second, but degrees of separation usually made him cautious. With the suddenly sickeningly real possibility that Dean could die before getting help and leave John with the knowledge that something could have been done, though, the eldest Winchester knew he had no choice.

"Sam?" There was no immediate answer, Sam still frantically trying to garner any response from his brother. "SAM!" The harshness of his tone caught even John unawares, his military training kicking in to deal with the crisis. Breakdown would be severely unhelpful at this point, no matter how rational and attractive a response it may seem. "Sam – do you still have pressure on his leg?"

"Yeah. But, Dad, I – I don't think it's helped..." The soft, scared voice made Sam sound much younger than his years. The knowledge that pressure on the wound added to the pain already being suffered always turned John's stomach. He knew from bitter experience how shaken Sam was, just what it took to keep on applying pressure and try to shut out the pleas to stop.

"Sammy, it does help. It does." _With the bleeding, at least._ It was too much to think about the rest now. No point until they were somewhere they could actually get something done about it. Essential basics first. "What about the head wound? Is it still bleeding?"

"Not as much. He still won't _wake up_, dad."

"It's ok Sammy. It'll be ok."

"Dad, we're too far from Bobby's, aren't we?"

"There's a contact of Bobby's much closer. He'll be able to help. Just keep the pressure on his leg, Sammy, and keep trying to wake him. Just like you are. You're doing fine. Dean will be ok. He _will_."_He has to be..._

Less than five minutes and a brief call telling Bobby where to meet them later, John brought the truck to a screeching halt in front of their destination. Running to the back door of the car, he first gently pulled Sam away from his unconscious brother. He kept hold of his younger son's shoulders for a second, stopping the kid from slumping to the ground as he struggled to keep his feet after being folded awkwardly in the back seat with Dean's head resting on his lap.

"Sam? You good? You still with me?"

Sam reached out to steady himself on the doorframe as he replied. "He's still out, dad. Please, help him."

John reached quickly into the car, his hands reaching under Dean's shoulders as quickly and gently as possible. A few seconds of awkward fumbling and John had one hand supporting Dean's back and the other under his knees as he lifted him out of the car. Dean's eyes shot open and he let out a pained protest to the movement. "Dad, pl- ah, _fuck, _dad. Fuckin'_hurts _dad." His breathing sped up, becoming increasingly shallow, his body beginning to tremble in John's arms.

John was already halfway to the building's door, ignoring the prickling behind his eyes as his son's pained cries rang out into the night. "Shh, Dean, shh, almost there son. You're doing great, it'll be over soon, you hear me? Real soon."

The trembling continued as half-closed, glassy eyes struggled to focus on John's face. "Y - agh,_ fuck_ – y' promise? D - dad?" John resisted the ever-increasing urge to break down at the pleading trust infused in his eldest's words. He almost couldn't bear to lie, but there were times when the truth could be a greater evil. Right now, anything but the comforting lie would do more harm than good, not only to the boy in his arms, but also to the one following behind him.

"Yes, Dean. I do. We're here, ok? Help's right here, just a little while, ok? Hold on for me, just a bit more."

"T-trying dad. _Fuck_ – hurts. Don't th-think... S-s'ry, dad..." Dean's eyes rolled back in his head, the shaking subsiding slightly as his head lolled against John's shoulder.

"Shit!" They were losing him. _Can't lose him, can't let him go, don't let him go... _

John managed to gather his wits enough to realize he couldn't do anything useful while Dean was cradled in his arms, and there was no way in hell he was letting go of his son.

"Sammy! I can't..."

"I've got it, dad," Sam pre-emptively replied as he banged his fist on the door, shouting for help. John heard the panic-tinged edge to the words as he felt the same emotion wrap itself around his mind, his heart – he and Sam knew the same thing, every second wasted was one Dean didn't have to spare.

Mercifully, the door was swung open within half a minute. The holy man behind it looked bedraggled, torn recently from sleep. John wasted no time with pleasantries. "You're Jim Murphy? I got your name from a mutual friend, said you could help."

The prompt for this one was another really appropriate one - Pastor!!! I'm aware this was a bit off canon, but I couldn't get the idea out of my head :)


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